Out Of The Dark
by Verifictus
Summary: Is the Season 6 finale really "the way the world ends" for Dexter Morgan, everyone's favorite serial killer, or just his first painful step out of the dark and into the burning light?


_Note__: If you haven't seen the end of Season 6, read no further!_

_How do they handle Debra discovering Dexter's secret? All the possibilities are rough and dangerous roads littered with potentially explosive landmines. So, the following is one possibility, a really clunky old-fashioned way of returning the series back to its tried and proven formula, using a threadbare cliché shamelessly lifted from your favorite soap opera with a little Dexteresque twist at the end . . ._

* * *

**Out Of The Dark**** – Take 1**

Did I really say, 'Oh God!'I guess I did. But don't make too much of it. I had a professor in college who was always saying, 'By Jove.'Since he was a devout Catholic, I can assure you he didn't believe in the mythical god, Jupiter. 'Oh God' and 'By Jove,' are just sayings. Nothing more. I should have said 'Oh Shit!'

But the real issue is why I found it necessary to say anything at all. Probably because I'd just driven a long sharp knife through Travis Marshall's heart, the Doomsday Killer, only to discover my sister, Debra, had seen me do it.

My worst nightmare had finally come true. It definitely took the thrill out of the kill. I'd thought about the possibility endless times, but never imagined it would actually happen. I'm obsessively-compulsively careful, after all. Apparently not careful enough; I should have locked the damned door! And you'd think that I'd have thought of a perfect way out of the mess, should it ever occur, having agonized over it so many times over so many years. But I hadn't. What could I do? Say something cute and humorous, like . . .

_Hey Deb! Want a wing or a drumstick?_

Or, _Hey Deb, watch your feet, don't want to get blood on your Pradas._

Or, _Hey Deb, don't get too close without your rubber gloves; he might have rabies._

Or, well, you get the idea. Or maybe I should've said something serious and expository like . . .

_Deb, I know what this must look like, but it's not._

Or, _Deb, you don't understand; I had a bad experience as a kid._

Or, _Deb,_ _I had to stop him or he'd kill more innocent people._

Or, well, maybe not. I decided the best approach was to let her say the first word. Then react. So I did.

"What the crazy _fuck_ are you doing!" she screamed.

"Deb," I pleaded, "let me explain . . ."

"Explain what!" she said, waving her hands wildly in all directions. "This isn't a spur of the moment, impulse sort of thing, a crime of passion. This is premeditation up the wazoo! The place is set up like a fucking mad scientist's lab with plastic and . . . and you're dressed up like Bob the Butcher . . . and he's naked and taped up like a fucking mummy, for Christ's sake. Explain _what!"_ She took a deep breath. "And what were you going to do with him if I wasn't here? Harvest body parts? Make sausage out of him? Or _what?"_

"Deb, it's not what you think."

"That's for fucking sure, since I don't have any idea _what_ I think." She began wandering around the church, looking at my kill-room accoutrements. Suddenly she looked even more shocked. "I've seen this before," she said, "where Jordan Chase was killed . . . tied down to a table . . . stabbed in the heart . . ." Her shock went up a few notches as she turned to gape at me. "It was you behind the plastic! Wasn't it!"

"Yes, but . . ."

"You've done this before, haven't you?"

"Yes, but . . ."

"How many times, Dexter? How many times have you done this before?"

"I don't know. Over a hundred, I guess." She turned white. Whiter.

"Over. A. Hundred," she repeated, almost in a trance. "My brother, the serial killer . . ."

"The Bay Harbor Butcher, to be precise," I said as gently as I could, trying not to sound cute. "Me, not Doakes. I just let everyone think he did it. He made it pretty easy, though, acting suspicious and stealing my blood trophies and, well, got his weenie caught in the ringer."

"This isn't funny, Dex! Why?" She suddenly seemed disoriented and dizzy. I reached for her.

"Get your hands off me!" she growled as she grabbed her gun.

"I'm still your brother, Deb. I could never hurt you. You're my sister. I don't know what I'd do without you."

She sat down on the hard tile floor in the corner of the dim cold room, and leaned back against the wall. I sat next to her, but kept a safe distance.

"Just tell me why," she said.

"He tried to kill Harrison and I . . ."

"Oh no, don't feed me that load of shit. This is something else. You've done this before. Remember? Just tell me the _real_ why."

"Okay, you're right." I paused and took a deep breath. "I can try, but . . . well, you remember Rudy . . . uh, Brian, my brother."

"Of course I remember the asshole. He tried to kill me. Remember?" She glared at me. "And you saved me. Remember?"

"Well, what you don't know is that we're the same. Inside. We both lived through our mother's slaughter. We both watched them chop her up with a chain saw. We both sat in her blood for days. We both stared into her dead eyes in her severed head propped up in front of us. We both went crazy. We both had to kill. We both had to dismember. We both died. Inside."

"I don't understand."

"Neither do I. All I know is that if it wasn't for Harry, I'd be just like Brian. I'd be . . ."

"What! Dad knew about this? What you do?"

"I'm afraid so. He taught me two important rules: It's wrong to hurt good people. And some people don't deserve to live." I decided not to mention, _Don't get caught._ "So I satisfy my obsession by killing really bad people, monsters." _Like me._ "Murderers, mostly. The Code of Harry, I call it."

"And cutting them up, like we found at the bottom of the bay?"

"Yeah, I'm afraid so. I can't help myself. I really can't. I'm sorry. But I'm not cruel; they're dead first."_ Usually_. _Sometimes._

"I can't believe Dad knew about this. He was a cop. A damn good cop."

"He was, but he knew. He taught me everything I know. He taught me to make absolutely sure they're guilty. How to track my prey. He even taught me how to keep from getting caught. He always said I was saving lots of innocent lives by getting rid of murderers." I winced. "I don't think he was too thrilled at what I did to them after I killed them, though." _Drove him to suicide, I suspect._

"Do you enjoy what you do, Dexter?" she asked quietly.

"No, not at all. It only relieves something deep inside so I don't explode. I'm a monster, Deb. I don't deserve to live around real humans. Like you. I wear a mask in public all the time so people don't see the real me. It feels like a straightjacket. But I have no choice. If people saw the real Dexter Morgan, they'd be horrified. Just like you are. I'm not proud of what I do, either, but I can't stop myself. And there's no _Monsters Anonymous_ to join, that I'm aware of."

"Well, I guess I understand why you're always detached, shutting me out . . ."

"Yeah, but that's mostly because I'm dead inside. Empty. I don't have feelings. At least normal feelings, like real people. Like love or . . . or even plain old happiness. I just kind of fake it."

"No happiness at all? Ever?"

"I wish I could say yes, but I can't . . . except, well . . ." I stopped, ". . . except, maybe, around kids. I don't know why, but I've always liked little kids."

"Jeez, Dex," Debra groaned, "don't tell me you're a child molester, too."

"No! I could _never_ hurt a child. Never. I have standards." I glared at her. "I _kill_ child molesters . . ." I suddenly felt cold and wrapped my arms around myself.

"I can't believe it, Dex! If Dad knew, why didn't he take you to a goddamned shrink?"

"He was afraid they'd put me away. He loved me, Deb, he really did."

"Yeah, I know. I know."

"Maybe too much . . ."

"Christ, Dexter, what am I going to do! You're my brother, my only family. I love you." She stared into space and sighed. "But I'm a cop, too. And I've sworn to uphold the law. And arrest people who break the law. What am I going to do?"

"Whatever you think's right. And don't worry, I'm not going to run. I'll go along with whatever you decide. I promise."

"But Dexter, if I turn you in, you'll get the chair. My only brother, my family . . ."

"I doubt it," I said, suddenly relaxed, "I'm crazy, remember? Mad as a hatter. They'll just stick me in one of those wonderful mental institutions for the criminally insane and shoot me full of mind-numbing drugs. I'll live happily ever after with a smile on my face, drooling down my chin. You can visit me and feed me pudding."

"This isn't funny . . ."

"I know. Believe me, I know. This is the nightmare scenario I've feared my whole life. Not just getting caught, but getting caught by my sister. You. Having to look you in the eye and say I'm sorry, over and over and . . ."

She suddenly scrambled to her feet and started wandering around the room in erratic circles.

"This is a nightmare, Dex. I don't know what the fuck to do. I can't arrest you, my brother, the person I love more than anyone in the world. But I can't just turn my back and ignore what you do, what you've done, what you _are_. Oh god, what do I . . ."

She began spinning in circles, her arms flailing. Then she collapsed. I jumped up and ran to her. She was mumbling incoherently as her head bobbled back and forth. She was having trouble breathing. I checked her pulse; it was erratic, dangerously so. It felt like she was having a heart attack.

I picked her up and ran out the door, to my car. I laid her on the back seat and floored it to the nearest hospital, St. Rose of the Andes Memorial. Where Harrison came into the world. I carried her into the emergency room. I was trying to decide what terrified me more: being arrested or Debra dying.

Debra dying.

Later, a doctor took me into a small room to discuss her condition in private. We sat.

"Is she alright?" I asked.

"She's fine," the doctor said with a reassuring smile. "She's had what we call stress cardiomyopathy, sometimes called Broken Heart Syndrome. Looks like a heart attack, but isn't. Usually caused by fear or anger or stress. Or all of the above. Has she been under unusual stress lately?"

"Yeah, she has. A lot." _More than you could __ever__ imagine. _"She just got a big promotion with a lot of responsibilities. The roof sort of fell in on her."

"Well, that's probably it, then. But don't worry, she'll be fine. She's young and healthy. A little rest and she'll be as good as new."

"That's a relief. I thought she was having a _real_ heart attack."

"Oh, no, nothing like that." He chuckled. "It's more like a mild nervous breakdown."

"So, when can she go home?"

"Anytime, really. But why don't you leave her here overnight, just to be safe.

"Works for me." _I can get rid of Travis and clean up the church. But then what?_ "Uh, can I see her?"

"Of course," he said, standing, "this way." I followed him out of the room and down a long depressing over-lit corridor. He stopped at the room she was in and left us alone. I approached her, not sure what to expect. She looked up at me.

And smiled.

I let out a long-held breath. "Hey, sis," I said, smiling back at her.

"Can you _fucking_ believe this, Dex," she said. "Me, having a glorified nervous breakdown! Like, fuck! I don't need this. Not now."

"Relax. Don't worry about it. Happens to everyone in positions of responsibility."

"_Responsibility,_ right! Didn't happen to LaGuerta. And she had the job for centuries."

"That's because she has a heart of stone, unlike you. And she eats adorable little baby puppies for breakfast, also unlike you . . . I hope."

She scoffed at me. "Thanks a lot. That really helps," she said with a touch of healthy sarcasm. _A good sign._ "I'm back at Vice for sure or – god no! – meter maid patrol. Before you know it, I'll be . . ."

"Don't worry," I said in my most reassuring tone with my most reassuring mask, "no one has to know about this. It'll be our little secret. Okay?"

"God, Dex, you're the best brother ever. What would I do without you?"

"Probably live longer and lot happier. My mysterious comings and goings probably added to you worries. I'm sorry. It won't happen again. I promise."

"Funny, I don't remember any of that. Must be part of what I forgot."

"Huh? Forgot? What do you mean?"

"Oh, they say I have something called, uh . . . hysterical amnesia." She rolled her eyes. "Kind of fucking fried my noodle," she said as she tapped her head.

"Oh yeah?" I said, swallowing hard, "uh, what's the last thing you remember, you know, before you woke up here?" I froze, waiting.

"Sitting in my car outside the church with my cellphone in my hand. I'd just had another argument with the Queen Bitch of the Universe."

"LaGuerta."

"Who else," she said, rolling her eyes again. "That's probably what pushed me over the edge."

"Probably," I said, relaxing for the first time in longer than I could remember. "Well, you get some rest and I'll be back tomorrow. I have a few things to clean up back at the church."

"Right. One of us has to hold up the legendary Morgan family professionalism, I guess." She rolled her eyes again.

"You're doing just fine," I said and kissed her on the cheek. "You just rest and I'll bail you out tomorrow. You can call in sick. And luxuriate at Club Dex for as long as you want."

"What happened to _Chez_ Dex?"

"Uh, shut down by the Health Department. Code violation – too unlived-in looking."

"About time they nailed your sorry ass!"

I gave her an energetic thumbs-up and left.

The doctor grabbed me on the way out. "Well, what do you think?" he asked.

"Seems like her old self. Except for her memory." I paused, then asked, "Will she ever get her lost memories back?"

"Hard to tell. Some do; some don't. Hysterical amnesia's unpredictable. Lots of possible causes, but one of the most common is a combination of stress and some kind of trauma, you know, something so upsetting that the mind doesn't want to remember it, so it blocks it out. Sometimes it takes another traumatic experience to shake it loose and sometimes it just pops up for no reason. And sometimes it's gone forever. Personally, I always prefer to let sleeping dogs lie." _Amen to that! _"But, I'm afraid all you can do is wait and see."

"Well, you've been a real help, doc. Thanks for everything." We shook hands and I left.

One thing's for sure, nothing he said was going to help me sleep any better at night. I used to worry about Debra _catching_ me in the act. Suddenly, I was worried about her _remembering_ she caught me in the act. Somehow, it didn't feel like an improvement, since it was completely out of my obsessive-compulsive control. Every time she stared into space or looked shocked or gave me a funny look or whatever, my blood would freeze in my veins.

For the rest of my life, I was going to feel like a frightened little kid wandering through a big dark scary room, never knowing when someone, or some_thing_, was going to jump out and say _BOO!_

Lucky me . . .

* * *

_After writing this story, I saw an interview with Colin Hanks (AKA Travis Marshall). He was asked if his contract with the show ended with Season 6. He looked amused and answered, "No comment." That could simply mean Travis is going to join Harry as a figment of Dexter's imagination next season, or maybe in flashbacks. Or it might mean something very different, like the following . . ._

* * *

**Out Of The Dark**** – Take 2**

"Oh God!" I said again, but with decidedly more dread.

I'd just driven a butcher knife through Travis Marshall's heart, DDK, the Doomsday Killer, only to discover my sister, Debra, had seen me do it. My worst nightmare had finally come true. It definitely took the euphoria out of the kill. I'd thought about the possibility endless times, but never believed it would actually happen.

"What the crazy _fuck_ are you doing!" she screamed.

"Deb," I pleaded, "let me explain . . ."

Suddenly, my cellphone rang.

I woke with a start in cold panic. I was at home, in bed, gasping for breath, covered with sweat, my heart beating so hard I thought I was having a heart attack. I grabbed the phone.

"Yo," I barely managed to rasp with a dry throat.

"DDK's struck again!" Debra barked. "Get your sorry ass out of bed and get the fuck over here . . ."

* * *

_If they can use a dream to let Debra play kissy-face with Dexter, they can use a dream to get Dexter (and the show) out of deep doo-doo. As Spock once said, "Sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander."_

_But then I saw an interview with Jennifer Carpenter (AKA Debra Morgan). In it she said Debra was smart and probably always suspected Dexter was up to something. Then I saw an interview with Scott Buck (exec producer / writer) who said "it really happened" and that they're not jerking their fans around. So, are they hinting at something like the following . . ._

* * *

**Out Of The Dark**** – Take 3**

"Oh God!" I said, just shy of a major coronary event.

I'd just killed Travis Marshall, the Doomsday Killer, only to discover my sister, Debra, was standing there watching me do it. My absolute worst nightmare had finally become a reality. It definitely took the satisfaction out of the kill. I'd thought about the possibility endless times, but never dreamed it would actually happen.

"Deb," I blurted out, frantic, "let me explain . . ."

But she just looked at me with big sad eyes. No shock or fear or even surprise on her face, just sadness – and a touch of disappointment – like the look a mother gives a naughty little child who just broke granny's favorite antique vase. I felt something I'd never felt before: shame. I couldn't bare for her to see me. I dropped into a corner of the room and curled up into a tight ball like a terrified little boy, my head between my knees, my arms wrapped over my head. I started trembling as I heard her approach.

I felt her arms wrap around me, holding me close.

"Don't worry, Dex," she said with a warmth and gentleness I'd never heard from her before, almost motherly, "there's nothing to explain. I've always known what you do. And why. I know you can't help yourself. And I know you're not a bad person. Dad told me everything before he died. He asked me to look after you."

She hugged me even tighter. "And I will. Always." She kissed me. "You're my brother, my _only_ brother. I love you and I'll always protect you. Always." I felt her warm tears wet my face.

And mingle with mine.

* * *

_Well, guess I've beaten it to death! Sorry to bore y'all. Too much free time on my hands, I guess. I probably need a hobby._

_So, as Debra might paraphrase Bette Davis in __All About Eve__, "Fasten your seatbelts, next season's going to be one crazy fuck of a bumpy ride!"_

_The End._


End file.
